


Taking Wing

by NineOfSpades



Category: Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: F/M, Johanna POV, Johanna's not his daughter, No actual sex, Romance, abusive implications, but c'mon that shit is sick, ingenue caricature played straight and then subverted, of sorts, offscreen character deaths, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineOfSpades/pseuds/NineOfSpades
Summary: In a city where people sang as often as they spoke, a delicate blonde singing at a window inspired certain feelings in those hopeless romantics that kept drifting in.Occasionally she saw the right sort of boy - tanned from travelling, searching for another adventure - but he never looked up.Formerly "If I Cannot Fight".





	Taking Wing

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd, and had a lot of feelings about the lines where Johanna said "And, what, we'll run away together and all our dreams'll come true? ...I've never had dreams - only nightmares." It was an awfully cynical line for the innocent helpless ingenue she'd been up until that point, and it confused me enough that, well. This happened.

The thing about Johanna Barker was that once you got to know her, you realized she wasn't naive at all.  Not like the airheaded ingenue she made herself out to be.  No - Johanna was eminently practical and more or less a cynic.  

Her parents had been fools.  She didn't want to be the same.  Besides, it was hard to keep a sense of joy and childlike wonder when the only person in the world who claimed to love her kept her locked up, and the company he kept had started turning lustful stares at her by the time she turned thirteen.  

So Johanna hadn't ended up a pliable fool like her poor parents.  Small use, that.  It wasn't doing much for her so far.  

 

In a city where people sang as often as they spoke, a delicate-looking smooth-skinned blonde sitting at a window inspired certain feelings in the romantics that kept drifting in.  Lured by the prospect of an aria ending in marriage, she supposed; a grand old story for the grandchildren.  She'd learned to sing early on - all the citizens had to - but her voice was always thin and reedy, a bit too high for comfort.  

No matter.  It would have to do.  

She seated herself at her window at the tender age of fourteen and began plying her trade for the first time, with ...intention.  

The first few days were disheartening.  No one stopped.  No one noticed.  No one cared about a girl whose voice shook like a tightrope, quivering as if about to break.  Occasionally she saw the right sort of boy - tanned from travelling, searching for another adventure - but he never looked up.  

She practiced singing every day, but it was a week before the first person looked at her.  That small, brief instant of eye contact kindled a tiny flicker of hope in her heart, a glimmer of a place safe from her guardian's roving eyes, and the way he licked his lips when he thought she wasn't looking.  

Nighttime was the worst - there were no gentle rays of sunlight to spotlight her face for a brave young soldier or sailor, and so she lay in bed, listening to her guardian pace back and forth behind the wall by the side of her bed, occasionally beating his head against the floor, swelling the house with songs about God and torment and unbearable temptation - it made her skin crawl, and she turned to prayer, too, desperately, praying the old man would have the control to last until she found a suitable champion.  

Day would break, and she would take up her station at her window again, grimly wielding the only weapon she had - she could not fight, and so she sang, sang of jewels kept in safes, of birds in cages, of fantastical creatures locked up, knowing her guardian wouldn't listen to the whimsical fancies of an airheaded young woman, and knowing all the same that the young men beneath her window, with their romantic notions of heroism and chivalry, would hear the desperate plea for freedom running underneath.  Allegory had been a subtle knife of the undertrodden grinding away at their bonds for centuries in England; the bits of her guardian's history books she'd snuck peeks at had told her as much.  

She drank tea with honey, and plenty of it, and rested her throat when she wasn't singing and practiced all the techniques she knew. It didn't seem to help, but one day there seemed to be a tipping point, and suddenly more people were looking up.

She grew more and more beautiful every day, and soon the brief glances became double-takes, young men from handsome to homely staring entranced at the princess in her tower.  Her guardian didn't notice - at least, not until the first rescue attempt.  

He'd been so honorable, and she'd secretly hated him for it - knocking at the door in broad daylight to ask for her hand in marriage, as if politeness would slay the dragon and keep it from roasting the gallant knight to a crisp.  This dragon had roared at the boy, backhanding him full across the mouth - she'd come downstairs to watch, with a sense of horrified fascination - and set his henchman on him, the fat man snapping out his cane to its full length and sending the boy out, bleeding... 

Her guardian had stopped letting her leave the house without an escort he trusted.  And the boys had been more cautious after that.  There had been witnesses.  The newer boys, just in from overseas, had been warned.  Some of them were interested, but they didn't want to risk the wrath of a judge.  A few, though, hot-blooded young men laughing in the face of danger, had launched daring attempts, climbing through her window to steal kisses, tying rope ladders around her bedposts, sending poetry and flowers via rock dove.  One clever fellow had even drafted up some kind of marriage contract, legal in a distant island nation, for her to sign, approved by a neighboring judge.  Of course, Judge Turpin, being a judge himself, and found out and given the boy a public whipping, and the attempts had died down a bit after that.  

A year later, the golden-haired boy staring up at her didn't seem anything special - any more or less likely than the others to get past the judge.  But she'd stolen the key to the front door a few days ago; that would improve his odds, at least.  If he passed the first test.  He was handsome enough - blonde, lithe, fine-boned - but that didn't matter; it told her nothing, and Johanna had stopped caring about it a long time ago.  The main determinant of success would be his own determination, easily tested - the judge was beating young men now, for even so much as looking at her too long, and all of the failed attempts had left him paranoid, glaring out at the street for hours every day.  If this one came back in a few days, she'd know he meant business.  

She hadn't allowed her self to hope, to dream - she'd never allowed herself to dream for as long as she could remember - but it was still a relief when, two days later, the boy stopped under her window again.  He was singing softly, and she couldn't make out the words, but she knew how he was looking at her; she'd seen it enough times.  She opened her window, wide, and threw him the great iron key, tied on a ribbon from her hair, like a favor for a knight.  

He came to her bedroom that night, tip-toing - he was a sailor, he whispered, and if they ran away together they could get far enough from London that Turpin would never find them.  She smiled and nodded and spoke as little as possible, for fear that her cold pragmatism would put him off, that he'd realize she was weighing his odds against the resources of her guardian, and the odds were very long... 

She evaluated her assessment of him after he left, the snores of her guardian ringing in the background.  He was polite, brave, honorable; rather reckless, but anyone willing to rescue her would have to be.  A few stolen moments of conversation couldn't give her an accurate portrait of his character.  But it didn't matter.  Perhaps they'd run away and he'd turn out to be a gambler, a drinker, a reckless spender.  It didn't matter.  Poverty was better than this.  And if he was cruel, and beat her - could it really be worse than living with her lustful guardian, spending every moment he had company over feeling like a small, flightless bird watched by a nest of snakes?  Besides, even if he was worse, and mistreated her, she could always plant herself at an upstairs window in _his_ house, and do this all again.  

So she started packing.  

That was when Judge Turpin stormed in.  

Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of him - there was a hate in his eyes that could only have been fueled by lust and wretched jealousy, and his voice was harsher and angrier than it had ever been.  But that wasn't why.   

He knew about her plans.  

She pulled herself together as best she could, heart racing furiously, and said quietly, "Sir, it is improper for a gentleman to burst into a lady's room uninvited."  It was a gentle rebuke, politeness and courtesy in the face of his vulgar rage, a dash of cold water in the face of an inferno, and it was the only thing she could arm herself with, like facing down a bull with a pocketknife.   

"Indeed," he said coldly, "but I see no lady."   

She backed away from him then, stalling for time, as his venomous voice hissed his betrayal, promising a worse fate than ever - but it was no use.   The door opened again and the henchman entered. 

Turpin watched impassively as his fat henchman crudely manhandled her, his ward, and then left the room, deaf to her screams as the oily man bodily grabbed her and carried her downstairs into a waiting carriage.  He hadn't done anything, not serious; he would have been too scared of her guardian, but he did hold her tightly, leering and enjoying what he could, while she screamed in a helpless fury.  

They arrived at the madhouse hours later, too quickly and too soon, and the oily man, still reeking of too-strong cologne, grabbed her again and pinned her against him and forced her through the gates.  The narrow-faced proprietor poked and prodded her, staring with his deep-set eyes, then produced what looked like a medieval torture device and led her upstairs, to a room full of blonde women and girls.  

She made herself small and cringing, silent and wide-eyed and obedient, as the proprietor laughed and raged at them, so he'd only hit her a few times and then moved on.  She stayed small when he left, and the lights went out, trying not to ruffle any feathers while the other girls whimpered or snarled at each other.  

When Anthony finally came for her - she'd given up hope at that point; she hadn't thought he'd know where to find her, and she hadn't dared even sing in this place, but he'd apparently circled the city looking into every window until he saw her – it took her a moment to recognize him, in those dandyish clothes.  He stood ramrod straight behind the proprietor, trying to project authority, but looking clearly uncomfortable; and when the girls and women shrieked and flung themselves away from the proprietor, and he’d jeered at them and jumped toward them to watch them practically wet themselves in alarm, Anthony’s eyes went wide with horror and he even flinched.  It made Johanna feel a strange fondness toward him, her would-be rescuer.  There was some innocence to him that Johanna had lost herself.  

She continued making herself small, invisible, peering out behind a curtain of hair until she caught his eye, and he turned to the proprietor right away, pointing at her, saying, “That one there has the shade I need.” 

The proprietor gestured her over, but she sat curled around herself, arms wrapped around her legs, frozen – the last few days of torment had rewritten her instincts.  He came toward her, then, and she nearly screamed as he brutally grabbed her and brought out shears, blades glinting, and snip-snipped in the direction of her face, asking maliciously, “Now, where shall I cut?” 

Anthony drew his gun on him, then, and said, “Not another word, Mr. Fogg, or it’ll be your last.”  And, Johanna had to admit, she was no romantic, but it made her heart flutter a bit, when he’d grabbed her hand and pulled her to him.  He held her tight, still training the gun on her abuser, and as he moved slowly backward, he said, “And now, I leave you to the mercy of your …children,” looking around the room at the other women, eyes glittering with savage justice…

It was the first time she’d ever wanted to kiss someone. 

He took her to someplace she didn’t recognize, and left her there, saying, “I’ll be back with a carriage in half an hour.  Stay here –- you’ll be safe here.” 

She wanted to laugh in his face, with a tinge of hysteria from her time in the asylum, but she held it back, saying instead, “and what next?  We’ll run away together and all our dreams’ll come true?” unable to keep the cynicism from her voice. 

Anthony looked at her then, not rejecting her cynical practicality but meeting it, levelly, with his youthful optimism, and said, “I don’t know.  But I hope so.” 

“I’ve never had any dreams,” she said bitterly, “only nightmares,” starting from that day, two years ago, when she’d realized with bone-chilling horror what her adoptive parent was singing about, and only growing worse since. 

There was pain in Anthony’s eyes, and sympathy, but then he looked away – practical, too, then – and said, “I’ll get the carriage.  I’ll be back in half an hour,” he promised, still looking at her, sincerity written in his face, eyes torn between staying and talking to her all night, and getting them to safety.  Safety won.  He ran out. 

She paced the floor, heart still hammering – freedom was so close it hurt, and yet it had been, before, and then been snatched away.  She was half afraid she’d see Judge Turpin burst through the door, carrying Anthony’s severed head…

She shook herself.  The madhouse had left imprints on her that she’d be a while shaking off. 

Footsteps, at the door.  Too early to be Anthony’s. 

A voice, like the madhouse, whispering of evil, and witches, and the devil…

She ran upstairs. 

Upstairs was a lonely, dismal room.  There was a hollow bench sitting by the side of the wall - for clothes, perhaps - a lumpy-looking bed in a dark, dusty corner, and a small table sitting before a large, gleaming mirror.  She drew nearer, past the leather swivel-chair by the window, to the table, where combs and various bottles and jars sat on the surface, along with... 

The sound of violence came from downstairs, shouting, but she paid it no attention.  

There was a double picture frame, silver, standing on the table.  Black and white pictures, a speck of blood on the right pane of glass.  

She picked it up and looked at it, closely.  

The woman in the pictures was beautiful.  She looked so much like Johanna that the picture frame might have been a mirror.  

She was holding a baby to her chest, with golden hair as fair as her own, smiling at the camera like she held the moon on a string...  

More footsteps, heavier, on the stairs, and Johanna quickly set down the photos.  She looked around, frantically, as the footsteps came up the stairs, and then ran across the room and pried up the lid of the hollow bench and hid herself in it.  She stayed there, frozen, listening to the heavy steps pacing in the room, acid fear tasting like blood in her throat.  Another set followed.  The door creaked open. 

Then Judge Turpin’s voice came, freezing her blood and chilling her very marrow. 

“She’s here, you say?” 

“Downstairs,” an unfamiliar voice said, and her breath hitched – would she have time to run away before they found her?  “Mrs. Lovett will bring her up in a minute.”    

Was this the voice of the man who’d betrayed her the time before?  Had Anthony trusted him then, too, only to have him warn Turpin of the escape?  Would he rob her of her freedom a second time, forever safe in the advantage of Anthony’s foolish trust? 

There were more words, muffled; it was hard to hear past the ringing in her ears.  But they confused her for a moment – the stranger had said she repented, and wept for the judge’s forgiveness.  Hope mingled with fear to beat her heart against her chest like the wings of a caged bird—

“Then she shall have it,” said Turpin, and there was leather creaking and the slight sound of metal against metal, and the two began to sing: 

“ _Pretty women, pretty women…”_

Bile rose in her throat – the two men each old enough to be her father, singing their lecherous fantasies.  The air tasted even more strongly of blood now, copper panic in her mouth, and she barely suppressed a scream. 

Judge Turpin sighed at the end of their song.  "It's nice to have found a like-minded fellow," he said.  

“It is, isn’t it,” agreed the stranger.  “We do have the same taste in women,” menacing, and she dug nails into her palms, deep, all but drawing blood. 

“What—” said the Judge, confused, and the stranger had said something about barbers, and faces, and prisoners—

And then—

And then she heard tearing flesh and the gurgle of blood as someone screamed out her father’s name. 

Moments later, or hours, or years, the chest’s lid creaked open, and she stared up at the man drenched in blood, a spray of crimson droplets decorating his white shirtsleeves and pale face, ominous in the contrast. 

“Fancy a shave?” he said softly. 

He pulled her out, forcing her into the leather chair that her adoptive parent had died on, while something in her mind screamed and screamed and screamed, all the glittering pieces falling together now, like a mirror breaking in reverse – the dried blood caked all over the inside of the trunk she’d hidden in and the razors and shaving cream on the table and the photo of her mother – and the weight of suppressed screams choked her, so that she could only say, “no- no-” as her long-lost father put a razor to her throat…

Downstairs, a woman screamed, and her father paused, then drew back.  He snicked the razor shut. 

“Forget my face,” he said, and she knew she never would. 

…

When Anthony found her again, there was blood all over the floorboards, and she was still sitting in that chair, numb, a sacrificial lamb on its altar.  He pulled her to her feet and held her, close, asking, “are you alright?  Are you hurt?” 

“I’m alright,” she said, the least true it had ever been.  “The carriage?” 

“It’s here,” he said, smiling, still worried, but with love and care in his brilliant blue eyes, a leaping joy that she was here, and safe, and would soon be sharing the rest of his life with him, and maybe he wouldn’t be another cage to escape from after all; maybe one day she’d even manage to talk about it, and then she’d tell him, tell him everything, and then everything would be alright after all…

She’d still never had dreams before.  But maybe, in the light of his hope, she’d learn to.  She owed him at least that much – he’d rescued her, after all, from fates each worse than the last, and now that he had given her wings she was free to fly again and she would rise to meet the shining optimism in his heart. 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> "I made a fanfic."  
> "You ruined a perfectly good ingenue is what you did! Look at her! She's got agency!" 
> 
> I considered making this a fic where Johanna's this siren luring men over with only coldhearted practicality and no romantic notions, but it wasn't nearly as interesting. The way I see it, you can have Johanna as this emptyheaded damsel who doesn't do anything, or you can see her as a survivor who saw her chance to get out of an abusive situation and took it.


End file.
